“Then you came to the right place,” she said.
David studied her.
“You know what this is like.”
It wasn’t a question.
Eleanor leaned back slightly in her chair.
“Yes.”
She’d spent years convincing herself she was done being part of someone else’s narrative.
“I thought you might,” he said.
A small silence settled between them.
Then Eleanor spoke again.
“If I represent you, there are no surprises.”
David looked up.
“I’ll need full access to everything connected to that investigation. Records. Business projects at the time. Anyone who might have reason to talk.”
“Understood.”
“And my investigator will be involved.”
David’s brow lifted slightly.
Eleanor opened the door.
“Deck.”
Deck O’Rourke appeared almost instantly, which meant he’d absolutely been listening in the hallway.
He stepped into the conference room with his coffee and gave Mercer a long, measuring look.
“Mr. Mercer.”
“David.”
Deck nodded. “Declan O’Rourke.”
The Irish brogue was light for the moment.
He took the chair beside Eleanor and folded his arms.
“So,” he said calmly, “the internet thinks you buried a woman under a mountain of concrete.”
David met his gaze.
“That’s what I’m hearing.”
Deck watched him closely.
“And did you?”
